by Ronie Kendig
She gulped a breath, her eyes widening ever so slightly. Her breathing slowed. The rigidity in her muscles softened. Everything softened. She was suddenly soft.
Soft. Beautiful. Fiery. A slip of a girl. Lips blushed with color that also filled her cheeks. He saw it, saw her reaction to being with him. Saw the same desire that made him ache squirm in her.
Tili uncoiled his fingers, one by one, from her hand . . . then gently brushed the hair from her face.
She responded, drawing up a little, her lips parting as she pulled in a quick breath. Her cheeks were bright from sparring, but more than exercise colored them now.
Something awakened in him at the realization he’d put that color there. He’d tripped up her icy assassin protective covering. Emboldened by that thought, he slipped a hand around her waist and drew her closer. Watching. Monitoring her every reaction.
It felt like approaching a viper. He half expected to get struck.
Her throat processed a nervous swallow. When she wet her lips, his gaze snagged on their fullness. He homed in on her mouth . . . But even as he did, even as she stood there frozen, he remembered. Remembered the men trying to rape her.
This time, Tili swallowed. She deserved better. And he wasn’t going to take advantage of her. Blazes, he didn’t even know her. But he wanted to.
“Steward?”
Startled by the intruding voice, Tili straightened. “Enter.” He looked to the tent flap. Felt her pull away, and instantly sensed a cold distance grow between them.
Laerian ducked in, a furtive glance darting to Astadia as she silently hurried out. His attention moved to the overturned table. He met Tili’s gaze with a smirk.
“Ye have need of me, Major?” Annoyance climbed Tili’s veins, suddenly remembering when she’d punched him. The knot growing on his cheek probably gave the wrong impression, that he’d tried to make a play and she’d socked him. It was good—a bit of shame to remind him to take the higher road.
“The Fierian has ordered we break camp.” He looked to the table again, then added the taunt, “If you have time.”
• • •
Haegan stalked down the line toward Tili, one thought on his mind. One ache in his heart. He found him packing his horse. “Where is she?”
Tili frowned, skating a glance around the camp. “Where is who?”
“Thiel.”
Tili almost seemed relieved, but then a cloud settled over his face. “I know not. Gwogh”—he nodded to the gray-bearded accelerant at the front of the column—“sent her . . . west.”
The man who never hesitated was now hesitating. Which meant he was also withholding information. “What are you keeping from me?”
Tili’s jaw tightened.
Haegan stepped in closer, surprised to find himself looking the Northlander in the eye. “What are you withholding about Thiel?”
Reticence held the Ybiennese prince. “She went west to seek help from the Ematahri.” He now peered over Haegan’s shoulder, forcing him to follow his gaze to where three raqine napped in the sunlight.
“Laertes said she fell from Chima.”
“Aye,” Tili conceded.
“Is she dead?” Haegan’s voice pitched. “Tell me!”
“Gather yerself,” Tili warned, shouldering in. “Ye are the Fierian and prince. Conduct yerself as such when people depend on ye for direction and leadership.”
Haegan drew up, stealing glances at those who watched but didn’t.
Tili tugged hard on a strap, then slid around his horse to test the other side.
“What do we do?” Haegan asked in a quiet, even voice. Authoritative enough to convey that he would not let this rest.
“We ride to Ironhall, as ye ordered.”
“I should take Chima, search for her.”
“Nay!” Tili growled. “Ye stay where ye are directed by Abiassa.”
He should know that. But the panic over Thiel strangled his thoughts. Having so nearly died himself, he could not bear the thought . . . “If she’s in hurt or in danger or d—”
“We are all in danger, Twig. And Kiethiel can handle herself.”
“How can you be so calloused? She’s your sister! What if she’s broken and lying somewhere—”
“She made a choice to accept the mission Gwogh set before her.” Tili moved with precision and intensity. “I trust her to the Lady, and ye should, too. Besides—forget ye that raqine are willed by Abiassa, not by whims of man?”
Haegan worried that Thiel had been with Chima in Ematahri territory and had plummeted from the raqine. If she survived the fall and was still with that muscled clan chief . . . “Chima wouldn’t have left her—”
“Aye,” Tili said. “She would. Chima is bonded to ye. She will abandon everyone and everything, even her own health and safety, to meet yer needs. Think not that she cares about anyone else. She is a raqine. They answer to Abiassa first, and second, their bonded.”
“What about their mates?”
“She’s like any other female—she tolerates her mate.” Tili huffed then sighed. “Though I have no evidence, I do not believe Kiethiel is dead. Does her absence worry me? Aye. And if she is unharmed—if a miracle exists that protected her, then one thing I know: she’d give her right arm to be at yer side, not that it sits well with me.” The words even bolstered him. “When she can be here, she will. Nothing will stop her.”
Haegan frowned. “How can you be sure?”
“If ye don’t know the answer, I won’t tell ye.”
Tokar joined them and the conversation. “And do you really want Thiel here when we are walking farther into the Desecrator’s maw?”
Haegan considered him, surprised at how the friend he’d journeyed to the Falls with had somehow become a man. Behind Tokar, the Tahscans gathered with their leader, who gave instructions as they prepared for the march north. Haegan couldn’t see their faces due to the cloths over their noses and mouths. They were all brawny and intent on the task at hand. Each time one bent to retrieve gear from the ground, the sun glinted off nearly bald heads. Why had they shorn their hair to the scalp?
His hand went to his own wavy, rumpled hair that had not been tended in . . . he knew not how long. He’d always worn his long because it was expected. It was a sign of his nobility. He was a Celahar, a royal, even locked in that tower.
Now who am I?
Something rattled deep within him, trembling until it violently seized him. He wasn’t the petulant prince as Tili and the others had for so long accused him of being. He also wasn’t the crippled teen who’d had his every whim catered to—save the attention of a father who saw only his own failure when he looked upon his son. He wasn’t the coddled boy whose mother had conspired against him with an accelerant, unwittingly creating a torturous effect for Haegan.
No, he wasn’t those people anymore.
He was . . . His gaze dropped to his hands, thoughts catapulting back to the courtyard of Karithia. To the moment he’d cut the breath from Nydelia’s throat. And yet, he felt so disembodied. Separated from all he had known. All he wanted.
Dark eyes bored into his mind, and Haegan latched on, sensing both strength and belief. Focus and determination. He blinked, realizing the Tahscan had closed the distance between them. Why was he so close? What did he want? Haegan took a step back.
“How is your father, Prince?”
The question jolted him. Haegan turned his gaze to the healing wagon. “I . . . know not. The Drigo,” he said, his breath and thoughts staggering, “is tending him.”
The man nodded.
Haegan squinted. “What was your name again?”
“Vaqar.”
A nod was all he could manage. Then, he frowned. “Why are you with the Pathfinders?”
Something in the man’s gaze told Haegan he’d already explained, but the expression also said more. “We may not be allies, but we have a common enemy. Because you dealt with the Infantessa, I have committed my blade to you.”
“Why?�
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The man’s cheek twitched. “She cost me much. Every person sent to intercede for Tahsca fell victim to her inflaming.”
Shame squirreled through Haegan. But this wasn’t about him. “Including you.”
Vaqar inclined his head slightly. “For a time.”
“There is no shame,” Haegan said, though the lie sat as acid on his tongue, “in falling prey to her dark magic. What is important is that we continue to fight.”
“Aye.” Vaqar leaned his head forward. The sun shone on the sweaty scalp beneath a haze of black.
“I would ask a favor of you, Tahscan.”
24
Flames grant him mercy, he would die in this Abiassa-forsaken land before he completed his task. And with Haegan returned and determined to make for Ironhall, not Vid, Tili was not sure what task remained for him, except the protection of the thinblood.
“Your thoughts are weighted,” came the voice of Colonel Grinda as they led the column around an abandoned village.
Some structures stood defiant in the wake of Poired’s attack, but most—like the people of the Nine—had crumbled. Lay broken, changed, if not shattered.
“There is much weighting them,” Tili replied, his gaze on the horses lumbering through the hot, dry terrain.
“Have you seen him?”
Tili frowned. “Who?”
“The prince—Haegan.”
“I think we all saw him, Colonel.”
“No, I mean . . .”
Tili shifted his full attention to Grinda now, surprised that he was at a loss for words. Then he followed the colonel’s gaze to a cluster of riders. The Tahscans. They moved through this trial and land as if it hadn’t fazed them.
“I don’t understand.”
“Aye, neither do I.”
“No—” But then it struck Tili. The Tahscans numbered one too many. They were not simply riding in a band, they were following. Trailing one man. He’d missed it because all their heads were shaved. Including that of Haegan, who rode with Vaqar. Head now shaved.
Tili startled at the stark contrast. “Blazes.” How had he missed Haegan shearing off his hair? What was the message in doing so? Among the Southlanders, it was a sign of nobility to wear the hair long. Was he shedding that persona? Rejecting one more piece of his identity?
“Steward,” came a voice from the side—Gwogh, who rode a black horse alongside Kedulcya. “We ride to Vid and will bring the accelerants we have gathered.”
“I am not sure I can afford an escort for ye.”
“We would not ask it,” Gwogh said. “The fewer our number, the less likely we’ll attract attention.”
Tili nodded, his gaze again drifting to Haegan. This was not the boy who’d stolen a kiss from Thiel, thinking none save the stars had been witness that night. Nor the boy who fled the gathering room when his destiny had been revealed.
Nay, this was a man. Not just a man. The Fierian. His back had broadened, shoulders filled out.
“He will need you, Steward,” Gwogh said. “Stay with him, stay true to him.”
The Fierian, the one who had blasted an entire city with a deadly wave of heat, would need Tili? He nearly scoffed out loud. But even he knew—felt—that the aged accelerant spoke true. “Fear not,” he forced himself to say, “I will remain until he is safely upon the throne.”
Grim faced, Gwogh heaved a sigh. “I fear that may not be the goal.”
“’Tis my goal and all I promise.” Tili swung his gaze again to the prince, who had turned to them. Strange, the Hand of Abiassa looked more a man than ever before, and yet . . . there was a glimmer of trepidation radiating through his face that was every bit the petulant twig who’d fled the great library at Nivar.
Gwogh rode away with Councilwoman Kedulcya, and Tili shook his head. Never had he seen a more splintered faction. One going here, another heading there. Different purposes. Different intents. And the remnant somehow finding him, joining so that now they numbered in the hundreds. And this is how we defeat the most powerful accelerant known to man?
“Where are they going?”
Tili slid his gaze to Haegan, who’d negotiated the column to gain his side. “They have an errand in Vid. They will join us at Ironhall in due course.”
Haegan nodded but made no move to return to the Tahscans.
It was hard to miss his pinked scalp. “Lice? Chiggers?”
Haegan glared.
“No?” Tili shrugged. “Tried to cut yer own hair?”
Haegan’s jaw muscle flexed, giving Tili entirely too much pleasure.
“Slept too close to the fire, then.”
“I needed a change.”
“A change,” Tili said with a nod. “So blowing up a city and killing a queen wasn’t enough change for ye.” He grunted. “Change—in that ye have succeeded.”
Haegan urged his horse away.
“You do remember,” came Laerian’s quiet, speculative tone, “that he’s the one who singed hundreds of people to dust, don’t you?”
“Someone needs to remind him he’s human.”
“Then let it be you, Northlander.” He gave another snicker. “Me? I like my body parts in one piece, not a pile of ash.”
“Hae—”
A whistle went up, one Tili recognized with the Pathfinders. His hackles rose. Beside him, Major Laerian had already swung around and jabbed his heels into his horse’s flanks, aiming hard for the western scouts.
“What happened?” Haegan asked, having regrouped with Tili.
“Warning whistle. A scout spotted something,” Tili said, watching as a lone figure grew smaller in the distance.
Grinda pushed up in the stirrups and gave his own whistle, ordering the remaining Pathfinders to form up.
“Go to the wagon,” Tili said to Haegan.
“Nay,” Haegan said. “I’ll stay—”
“If they spotted incipients—”
“Then I will sense them and they me.” Haegan squinted. “Hiding in a wagon with my unconscious father will not aid anyone in victory.” He held up his hand and pure blue flames trickled along his fingers and knuckles. “She gave me a gift. I will use it.”
Tokar came alongside Tili. “He’s bringing someone.”
They looked toward the plain, where Laerian was escorting a man toward the column. Something in Tili writhed as he realized who it was.
“Drracien,” Haegan breathed around a laugh, then dropped from his mount and pushed through the Pathfinders. “Let me pass!”
This wasn’t right.
“What’s he doing north of Dorcastle?” Tokar asked, mirroring the questions tumbling around Tili’s mind. “Last I knew, he was in Hetaera.”
Tili frowned. “Hetaera? Ye’re sure?”
“Aye, saw him climbing the walls. He visited Haegan.” Tokar scratched his face. “Guess if we could get out before the city fell, he could as well.”
Tili’s eyebrow hitched. “Alone?”
“Traitor!” came a shout—from the Tahscans.
“Bleed him,” another Tahscan growled. “He reeks of their stench.”
“That’s not good,” Tokar whispered.
Tili urged his horse through the circle toward the front where Grinda, Laerian, Drracien, and Haegan stood. Confusion ran through the prince’s sweaty face.
“Cut him down where he stands,” Vaqar said. “He breathes the Void.”
“Breathes the Void?” Haegan scoffed, but the laugh seemed forced. “You don’t know of what you speak. Drracien is my friend. One of the truest.”
Snatching the cloth from his face, Vaqar sneered. “I care not what he was. He is now what he is—and that stench is borne of the Dark One.”
A strange flicker flashed through Drracien’s eyes and then vanished. Lightning fast. “I’ve been accused of worse,” came his familiar, arrogant taunt.
Vaqar drew his sword.
Haegan leapt in front of Drracien. “No!” He thrust out a hand, and that pale blue wave wafted to life.
With gasps and shouts, the crowd leapt back.
“Haegan,” Tili warned, frowning, then turned his attention to the dark-haired accelerant. “From where have ye come?”
Drracien snorted. “West.” Looked over his shoulder. “Thought you would’ve seen me coming.”
Tili checked the boy’s boots. Trousers. Dust. But enough?
“Leave off,” Haegan said. “Drracien is here, safe. That is all that matters.”
“It is strange, sire,” Grinda said.
“No,” Haegan growled. “It’s not. He is my friend. Just like Tokar, Praegur, and Laertes. Drracien got me to the Falls. He protected me. Watched over me in Hetaera.”
“Or did he lead the assassins to your door?” Tokar suggested.
“Why would I do that?” Drracien scowled. “He’s my friend!”
“My brother and I needed no help from a slick snot like him,” Astadia countered.
Tili shifted, unnerved he hadn’t detected her coming up beside him. And that Drracien was taking this all calmly in stride.
“I smell the Dark One on him,” Vaqar again warned. “The scent is never wrong.”
“Where have you been?” Tokar demanded.
Drracien glanced at the Tahscan, then swallowed. “He’s right.”
Haegan stilled, uncertainty dancing over his face.
“I was caught by the Dark One,” Drracien admitted, “but I managed to escape—perhaps that is why you think I was with him.”
Tili glanced at the Tahscan, who seemed to waver in his determination. “Is that possible? To bear the stench of another?”
Vaqar frowned. “It’s never been true before—”
Tili lifted a hand to the Pathfinders to secure Drracien.
“—but neither have I been very close to the Dark One, whose stench burns like no other.”
“See?” Drracien laughed as he caught Haegan by the shoulder. “It’s all—”
“Where were you when the Infantessa held Haegan?” Apparently, Tokar wasn’t placated. “Where were you when the battle erupted and he needed assistance?”
Drracien shifted, his face blanching. A good look on the arrogant accelerant.
Truth be told, Tili would like to know as well. Was it too convenient that Drracien came upon them after the battle and before Ironhall? What was his purpose here? But what concerned him the most was Haegan’s vapid defense of the absentee accelerant.